Anathema
by disintegrated
Summary: As Harry becomes increasingly distant and Ron becomes increasingly pigheaded, Hermione seeks comfort from other people and finds solace in an unlikely place.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter I

She couldn't recall when she first sensed the change in herself. Hermione had always been the first to master a new charm, no matter how complex. She had always been the first to raise her hand, excitement shining from her face and an answer waiting to burst from her lips. That seemed ages ago from now, a dim memory flecked with dust and apathy.

Hermione had always been the brightest witch her age, and not just when it came to skills in the classroom. She had managed to remain close to Harry and Ron despite the numerous periods of not talking to one of them because of argument.

Hermione had always been the first with fresh innovative ideas when conflict with Voldemort was imminent. She was the one who got Harry past most of the protections of the Sorcerer's Stone back in their first year. She was the first to identify the horror residing in the Chamber of Secrets rising stealthily to petrify the enemies of the Heir. Hermione was wholly responsible for saving the lives of Sirius and Buckbeak. She had done her best to help Harry though the Triwizard Tournament. She had organized Dumbledore's Army, tried to protect Harry from falling into Voldemort's trap last year, and had fought alongside him at the Ministry. That seemed ages ago, a dim memory frosted with rumor and secrecy.

Here and now, in her sixth year at Hogwarts, Hermione was slipping. She was losing touch with her friends, her studies, herself.

Harry was slowly distancing himself from Ron and Hermione. She didn't take it personally, she understood his reasoning. Not only was Harry occupied with his school work, but the grim threat of Voldemort hung on his neck like a noose shrinking around his throat. Harry's latest title hung heavily on him as well. The Chosen One? Hermione had no doubt Harry had been chosen by Voldemort, that much was evident just by looking at the circle of destruction enclosing Harry and steadily getting closer to him.

Voldemort had destroyed nearly everyone Harry was close to, almost all the people who cared for him as Harry, not as the Boy Who Lived. The first to fall were his parents. James and Lily were murdered as they tried to protect their son. Their sacrifice is what made Voldemort crumble into a mere shadow of what he had been before, but that did nothing to stop his goal to destroy Harry. The next to die was Cedric Diggory. While not the best of friends, or even from the same house, Cedric and Harry's shared role as Hogwarts' Champion created a bond between them. When they had escaped the maze and its myriad of deadly citizens they shared in the victory, but Harry was the only one to escape Voldemort. The last death so far had certainly been the hardest for Harry to cope with. His parents having died when Harry was only a baby, Sirius had become the father Harry never knew. Only knowing each other for a few short years, Harry and Sirius were so close it was as though Harry had grown up in his care. When Sirius fell through the veil at the Ministry, Harry was crushed. With his acknowledgment of the pattern forming, Harry was determined not to let the few remaining people he was close to fall in the battle against Voldemort. Hermione grasped all this at a level it is probable Harry couldn't, but that didn't change the fact that his cold detachment towards her stung. Harry didn't even want to talk to her anymore. With the Half Blood Prince's copy of _Advanced Potion Making_, Harry no longer needed Hermione's constant nurturing to pass Potions. Desperate to regain the friend she could tell she was starting to lose, Hermione even checked out several books on Quidditch from the Library in an attempt to get a conversation going, but all her varied strategies inevitably failed. The only thing Harry seemed to talk about anymore was Draco Malfoy. Trying to test out his arguments that Malfoy was a Death Eater before taking his evidence to Dumbledore seemed to be the only reason he sought Hermione's company anymore. He already had Ron convinced, and the two of them kept badgering away at her in a constant attempt to convert her.

Ron was hardly any better than Harry, if not worse. Hermione wasted no time in picking up on his affection for her, even if the ways he displayed it were often infuriating. When he wasn't making side comments trying to attract her attention, he was giving her hell over Krum. When he wasn't snogging Lavender, he was being as rude and as inconsiderate as possible for a Gryffindor. Bu when he wasn't fully aware, he would be as sweet as is desirable. These moments of genuine demonstrations of his crush on Hermione were few and far in-between.

Hermione's two closest friends had morphed into two blokes she hardly recognized; a detached and depressed Malfoy-maniac and a confused and pigheaded not-so-secret admirer. She received no support or interest in her well-being from either of them, just a lot of silence or sarcasm. Often after a meal or even a few shared moments in the Common Room she would sneak away to her dormitory to cry in a silent solitude as thick as her companions' heads.

The tension and despair flooding her life did little to stem or at least manage the inundation of work her professors immediately unleashed. Snape's biting tongue showed even less mercy than Vector's course work. Hermione was wearing thin. Her eyes seemed to have gone dormant, their inquisitive and excited glint vaporized and lost within a mist left behind by the frequent tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

Distracted by all the noise in the Common Room that night, Hermione was struggling with an essay set by Professor Slughorn on the delicacies of successfully preparing the Draught of Living Death. Hermione's mind wandered back to her perfect start in Potions this year, correctly identifying each potion, including the Draught of Living Death and Polyjuice Potion, Slughorn presented to the class. With a grimace she recalled the following sequence of events begun by Harry's lucky discovery of the Half-Blood Prince and culminating in her loss of the top grade in Potions.

After making a few non-committal scratches on her essay with her quill and chewing the end for a bit, Hermione heaved a loud sigh of frustration and slammed shut her copy of _Advanced Potion Making_, whipping around to face Harry.

Oblivious to Hermione, as well as the rest of the frivolities, laughter, and pleasant atmosphere of Gryffindor Tower, Harry remained gazing into the fire, engrossed by the tiny nuances of its movement. The flames crackled and merrily spit sparks from the hearth while the smoke curled lazily upward in spiraling plumes filling the chimney. But in the reflection of his glasses, the flames took on a grimmer aspect, accenting the lines of worry etching themselves in Harry's forehead and illuminating the jagged calling-card Voldemort had left there many years ago.

"All right, I give up," huffed Hermione. "Harry!" she shouted.

Harry's thoughts scattered, he looked up sharply in alarm. "What do you want?"

"Look." Hermione breathed in deeply and slowly, and then exhaled in a rush. "I was wondering if I could borrow your Potions text for Slughorn's essay."

"But you've got your copy of it right there –"

"Yes," she interrupted exasperatedly, "but the Prince helped you brew the Draught of Living Death on an equal level with Snape on the first try. I think his notes on technique could help my essay. I really need the extra points to keep from failing this term."

"So all of that non-stop prattling about how the Prince was probably a Dark Wizard was what?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to nag and I'm sorry I was so persistent. Can I please just borrow the book?"

"Whatever. Just use it in your dormitory."

"Why? Don't want the rest of Gryffindor to find out the only reason you've bested me in something is because you're cheating?"

"Shut it, Hermione. Just for once."

Harry turned back to the fire, but Hermione just stood there for a little longer. Staring at his back, she could remember all of the adventures they had before this stranger had replaced the happy-go-lucky and daring Harry she met on the train. Swallowing the urge to shout something horrid, she simply whispered "I miss you, Harry" too low for anyone else to hear. Not that it would matter; Harry made it clear he wasn't even conscious to her presence anymore. Hermione felt her eyes moisten, and she turned hurriedly to the staircase leading to Crookshanks and her dormitory.

As she climbed up the stairs with papers, quills, ink, and the Prince tucked under her arm, Hermione let the sorrow show more freely in her face. Doing her best not to let the entire Tower know her pain, she still didn't care enough to quicken her pace. Hermione had almost reached the landing and realized that she wasn't going to finish the essay. Entering her dormitory, a quick glance around revealed that she was alone. Hermione tossed her uncompleted essay and her writing tools into her bag, keeping the Prince with her as she crawled into bed. With the book in her arms, she began flipping through its pages, searching the scrawls along the sides of the pages for something she knew would be there. She still clung to the idea that the Prince could be evil, and tonight she was counting on it.

Hermione had overheard from a member of Slytherin house about the practice of self-mutilation. The pain and destruction one inflicted on one's own flesh purportedly detracted from the pain and destruction haunting one's soul. Hermione was sick of the pangs of hurt, the everlasting despair that draped her every thought in shades of somber grays. She was willing to try anything to get rid of it. She had already tried performing Cheering Charms on herself, but after the fourth one in one hour, she could empathize with the Muggle practice of getting stoned. That wasn't what she was looking for; not a temporary escape from the drones of mortality that would be forgotten until her next fix. Hermione wanted something that would leave a more noticeable mark on her being, so that she could remember the relief she felt and try to feel it again without resorting to action.

As she intently perused the book, she paused. _Sectumsempra:_ _For enemies_. That seemed it would do the trick.

Rolling up her left sleeve, she pointed her wand at her arm, swallowing a sob. With the tiniest amount of emphasis, she whispered _sectumsempra_. Hermione breathed in sharply as jagged cuts appeared all over her arm, forming a ladder of red that led from her wrist to her elbow. The blood began to seep out and coat her arm in a brilliant scarlet. It dripped from her and fell to the bed-sheets, matching their shade almost perfectly. Hermione sat in her bed, not moving, but breathing harshly and relishing the feeling. The feeling! The anguish and concern that had built up in her body then congealed to a torturous mix of apathy and misery seemed to be oozing from the cuts as well. The world regained its vibrant color and she truly for the first time how disconnected she was from the Hermione of last year. She lay back on the bed, her left arm still exhaling crimson. As the sharp sting of the air of her dormitory caressing her arm dulled to a steady throbbing Hermione eyes closed. Tonight would be the first complete night of sleep since last year.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

Hermione's eyes shyly peeked out from heavy eyelids.

Red. Lots and lots of red.

Curtains of blood enclosed her bed, trapping her in a cell only a creature like Sanguini could appreciate. Her eyes shot fully open in disgust and an emotion not far from terror. With her mind fully awake now, Hermione relaxed. It was just the bed-hangings. A house elf must have closed them in the night.

Hermione moved to rub her eyes, struggling to push away the image her groggy mind had fed her. As she moved her left arm out from underneath the covers, they brushed against her skin. Hermione winced and moved more slowly. The matching scarlet of her blankets and the congealed blood staining her arm made the untainted skin appear out of place, unnatural. Hermione lightly traced her finger along the deep scores, a tingle building at the base of her spine. Not excitement or loathing, some emotion in-between. A tingle that made her entire body shiver despite the warmth of her dormitory. The shiver made her realize she should get moving.

She was careful to drape her towel across her right arm as she walked to the bathroom to take a hasty shower. A few minutes later she emerged dripping wet and shrouded in towel. Hermione began to dry herself, vigorously rubbing the towel over her body. Without thinking, she moved with the same speed and force over her left arm.

The pain was immediate and intense. Hermione gasped, the pain was such that screaming just couldn't suffice. She sank to the floor, her vision blurring, her head reeling. Breathing in shallow raspy inhalations, Hermione cradled her arm, the scabs that had begun to form washed away by the fresh flow of blood. She unconsciously began to rock back and forth.

Unclenching her muscles and letting her eyelids drift apart, the room came back into focus around her. Hermione stared dumbly at her arm, by now so completely soaked in blood in seemed like a sleeve. "Shit," she mumbled to herself and hurriedly began to dress. She had already missed breakfast and Arithmancy would start in twenty minutes.

Emerging from behind the Fat Lady fifteen minutes later, Hermione walked briskly. Her right arm swung free, but her left she gingerly held as close to her body as she could without risking contact.

Entering Vector's classroom just in time, she quickly scanned the room for an empty seat. She realized with dismay that the only chair open was next to Draco Malfoy. She was doing her best to conceal her pain at both having to sit next to the most snake-like of the Slytherins since Salazar himself and at having brushed her tender arm against someone's back while making her way to this accursed table.

Hermione sat down brusquely and before she could slam her books on the desk, Malfoy darted his left arm out of the way. It took her a moment to realize the possible implications of Malfoy's special sensitivity to his left forearm. The underside of the left forearm is where Voldemort left his Dark Mark. Could Harry's theory on Malfoy's status as a Death Eater be correct? She peered questioningly into Malfoy's face.

_He looks like hell_, she thought to herself. _Like he hasn't slept well in weeks and certainly didn't make an attempt at anything resembling peaceful slumber last night. I certainly hope I don't look that bad._ The beginnings of dark rings surrounded Malfoy's pale grey eyes, the only color on his otherwise pallid face. On anyone else, those rings would have looked sickly. On Malfoy they looked decadent.

Hermione couldn't help but be pulled into those eyes; grey pools without bottoms any girl would pay to drown in. Their usual condescending glare was replaced by a glazed over fear. Malfoy looked away from Vector at the front of the class to notice Hermione staring at him. "What's the matter, Mudblood? Forgotten your other natural disadvantage, being a Gryffindor? If you can't remember why that's bad I'm sure I've got a list somewhere…"

"Stuff it, Malfoy."

Even Malfoy's insult had seemed half-hearted. His forceful personality wasn't behind it. His angry words sounded scripted, a part he had to play in order to keep some shred of normality in whatever was going on in his life right now. Hermione looked away from him and faced Vector. Certainly not an improvement. Despite his acidic personality and apparent insomnia right now, Hermione couldn't deny that Malfoy was attractive. His pale body was perfect, not over-muscular, not overly-soft. At least, that's the impression Hermione got. Hogwarts' robes weren't the most flattering attire. She felt vaguely repulsed at her acknowledgment of Malfoy's bizarrely powerful sex appeal, but it didn't matter. No one else knew she noticed.

At the end of the period, Hermione watched Malfoy out of the corner of her eye as she packed away her materials. Malfoy's signature fluid movements lacked their usual grace, a deference being shown to his right arm, his left merely looking pretty. When he unwittingly tried to pick up a text with it, he dropped the book as soon as the weight of the book caused the skin on his forearm to stretch. Cursing under his breath he scooped up the book with his right arm and shoved it in his bag. As Draco hurried out of the room, Hermione's eyes followed him out. Lost for a moment watching the way his robes swung perfectly about him, Hermione made the same mistake Malfoy did, with similar results. Muttering the same curses, Hermione slid her book into her bag with her right arm and left the classroom in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

After a seemingly endless day filled with coddling her arm and struggling to find interest in her classes and the people around her, Hermione was exhausted. From class to class she suffered pangs of excruciating pain as she was jostled to and fro by her fellow students. The chaos of the corridors and being perpetually bumped into had never bothered Hermione. Then again, she had never had an injury of this sort before.

She sank into an enormous soft chair by the fire in the Common Room. As she stared into the flames, she let her eyes glaze over and slip out of focus. Her mind wandered and reluctantly settled on Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy. Such an elegant name perfectly suited to his contemptuous and elegant manner. Malfoy was an enigma. So coldly beautiful, yet he managed to remain single. Sure there was that stint with Pansy, but even Ron, who was less experienced than an eight-year-old when it came to relationships, could tell it would never last. When Malfoy broke up with Pansy, Hermione had been both disappointed and excited. Disappointed Malfoy wasn't the one who suffered being dumped; excited he was once again free game. Not that Hermione would ever so much as think about Draco romantically…

Hermione sat up straight in her chair in shock and embarrassment. Not only had she been doing just that, but she had thought of Malfoy by his first name. In wizarding society, using someone's first name implied attachment and some level of personal caring. The only wizard she knew of who had his friends call him by his last name was Hagrid, and that was probably only because Rubeus was such a beastly name. _Or he can't manage to spell it,_ she thought, recalling Hagrid's coarse grammar and even worse handwriting.

Her face feeling hot, Hermione's mind began racing. Malfoy was certainly not the sort she would ever consider dating. Prejudiced, selfish, egotistical, those were only some of his better traits. He was a Slytherin, she was a Gryffindor. He was born into a pure-blood Wizard family, she was Muggle-born. He was a prat, she was not. He was beautiful in a way that rivaled the classic Greek image of bodily perfection, and she could hardly be expected to measure up to that.

She shook her head violently in an effort to get rid of the picture in her head of Draco, naked, striking a pose reminiscient of the famous statue David. _Damn it,_ she thought, _again with 'Draco'. For the last time, he is 'Malfoy'. MALFOY!_

More importantly, it was more likely than not that Dra…_Malfoy_ was a branded Death Eater. Hermione would never regard one of Voldemort's trusted disciples as a fellow human being, let alone a potential boyfriend; no matter how exquisite a sample of a human body he had. And that was the bottom line.

Hermione decided it would be better to just go to bed. No more of this fantasizing about her and Malfoy. Even though her hair was far less bushy than last year, some might even call it sleek, and her front teeth had been vastly improved by Madam Pomfrey, she could hardly hope to catch Malfoy's attention. There were so many other better looking girls, and if he was a Death Eater, Malfoy most likely wouldn't have time for any of them. Hermione rose from her chair, and started toward the stairs. Just then Ron came streaking across the Common Room top speed, probably to sit in the chair Hermione had just vacated. Inevitably, he crashed right into her. She fell hard and fast, landing on top of her left arm and underneath Ron. Hermione tried to take in a deep breath to keep from crying out, but the mass of Weasley on top of her was making her lungs claw the air for a fair breath. Ron took his time getting up, and when he was finally on his own two feet, he started to help Hermione up. When she grasped his arm to stand, his face became a violent shade of pink and he started sweating. He gruffly dragged Hermione to her feet. Mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a mix of an apology and a declaration of his undying love, Ron swept off to his dormitory in a rush, the chair forgotten. Hermione didn't think twice about Ron, just called him a blind and clumsy git, under her breath of course. With her arm throbbing again and her whole body feeling as though she'd been hit by the Whomping Willow she began to ascend the stairs.

When she got to her dormitory, Hermione couldn't help but not be impressed. Last night it had seemed much less shabby. Tonight it was just her dormitory again, a room for a single person with a bed and a wardrobe and not much else. Not exactly her idea of excitement. Even the colors seemed diminished. Remembering her fright this morning, she had no idea how she could have confused the faded red of her bed-hangings for the vibrant crimson of fresh blood. Sighing in her disappointment and acknowledgement at the state of her living quarters, Hermione shrugged off her robes and climbed into her bed, not bothering to put on pajamas. She hoped she would at least sleep as well as she did the night before.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

When Hermione got out of bed the following morning, she was still exhausted. Her night had been anything but restful. She spent hours struggling to get comfortable, only succeeding in getting tangled among the sheets and blankets. The few minutes she had spent dozing had been plagued by unpleasant dreams. _Unpleasant is the wrong word, _she thought as she reached for her towel. _Disconcerting is more appropriate_. She headed to the bathroom to take a cold shower. Scalding hot showers were her custom, but Hermione was hoping the cold water would sober her out of her fantasies.

The cold water gently massaging her tired body was refreshing. However, it did not achieve its desired effect and soon enough Hermione was lost in thought reliving her dream, a smile stealing across her face.

She and Draco were alone in Myrtle's bathroom. Hermione didn't know how, but she knew that Myrtle had left and they truly were alone. Hermione was very upset about something, but she didn't know what. The silence between her and Draco was uncomfortably expectant, something clogging the air waiting for resolution. Draco looked at her, then down at his feet. He shuffled them back and forth, placing weight on first one then the other, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Suddenly his head leaned back and he issued forth a long exhale. Standing up straight and facing Hermione, his face looked genuinely penitent as he began to speak. "Hermione, about what I said earlier…I'm sorry."

Whatever had sent her this dream had obviously skipped some part of the transmission, seeing as now Hermione and Draco had their arms wrapped tight around one another, her lips meeting with his in a kiss. Testing his boundaries to see where she would allow him, Draco parted his lips a bit more and Hermione responded by stroking the sensitive skin below his earlobe and separating her own lips, inviting Draco into a more intimate exchange.

As she wrapped her arms more tightly around him, she felt Draco encompassing her entire body. Hermione dismissed it as her emotions exaggerating the lack of space between them. But then the strange tongue caressing her own became even stranger, as she sensed it was split down the middle. Draco's skin had become cold and slick where moments before it had soft and warm. Pulling her face away from his and opening her eyes, Hermione shrieked and struggled to disentangle herself. Draco had become an enormous snake and she was helpless in his constricting coils. No longer recognizable as the demigod whose body she craved, the snake hissed lowly and Hermione screamed, even the echoes saturated with her fear and loathing.

That was when Hermione had snapped to wakefulness and reached for the Listerine on her nightstand. The fact that the Listerine was there wasn't odd; her parents were dentists after all.

That was when she had decided to take a frigid shower. Unfortunately, the icy water hadn't cleansed her mind as it cleansed her body. Shaking from both the memory of the dream and the deep cold the water left on her body, Hermione stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in her towel, leaving the bathrooms to dry off and get dressed.

She made sure to get to Arithmancy early as to avoid Malfoy's company for a second day. Alas, today was Malfoy's turn to be tardy. Everyone had learned by now the perils of sitting next to Hermione, and the desk next to her was the only one vacant. Malfoy had no choice.

Carrying his bag in his right hand, Malfoy hurried across the room, sliding into the seat next to Hermione just before Professor Vector turned to address the class and begin today's lecture.

Malfoy looked even more sickly than yesterday. The beginnings of dark rings shadowing his eyes had become more pronounced and coupled with his pale skin; Malfoy almost looked like he had recently lost a lot of blood. Of course, this weak and nearly transparent look was immensely alluring. Malfoy had some stroke of lucky genes that made it impossible for him to look bad. Even when he spent a few tortuous minutes as a ferret in their fourth year, he was the most dashing ferret on the planet, his white fur sleek and silky. Rumor had it that Malfoy had Veela in his blood.

Hermione's eyes crept over Draco's form. From the perfectly styled hair gracing his head in a delicate halo of blond to his smooth and steady hands that were in a stark contrast to his black robes, Draco was the epitome of why humans so frequently succumbed to lust. Merely being near him aroused vibrant passion in even the most stoic of his classmates. Coasting back to his face, Hermione's eyes finally lingered on his lips. They looked softer than the finest cashmere, and infinitely more inviting. She recalled the taste of them in her dream, and how smooth they were against her own. Hermione would have bet her Gringott's account that Draco's kisses were exactly as she had dreamed them, if not better. As he breathed, there was a slight tremor to his lips, and when he noticed Hermione so enthralled by them he didn't say a thing, simply gazed back. When Hermione finally stumbled out of her rapture and became aware of Draco's somber grey eyes intent on her, she peered up into the, expecting malice or snobbery at the least.

Surprisingly, she was instead met by one of the most intense looks she had ever received. It was almost obscene, how strongly Draco's eyes radiated into hers. Draco's eyes seemed to be bursting, something he desperately wanted to communicate was seeping out and he was trying to keep it under his control. His eyes seemed to caress her, but at the same time be begging for help. The longer Hermione and Draco remained locked at the eyes, the deeper she sunk into the sensuous grey orbs Draco called so modestly "eyes". That was too simple a word for them, too grotesquely understated. She could build universes with those eyes; they needed a grander title than mere _eyes_. She had _eyes_. Harry had _eyes_. Draco had…she couldn't even attempt to put into syllables what it was that Draco used to gaze at her. They seemed two stars of liquid beauty; and the more she returned Draco's intimate stare, she began to notice real liquid beginning to crawl out. A small, perfect bead of water collected at the corner. Gaining in size, the tear eventually became too large to remain and gravity coaxed it into gently stroking Draco's cheek. The wet on his skin must have roused him from his reverie, and Draco turned away hurriedly, discreetly drying his face.

Hermione remained staring for a short while longer, then she too turned to face the front of the room.

While her eyes might have been on Professor Vector, her thoughts were distant from Arithmancy. She and Draco had just communed in a very deep and penetrative way. In that one look she had shared herself wholly with him, and he too had laid bare his soul for her to inspect. Despite their years of assumed animosity and their plentiful spats, Hermione and Draco had just done something she had never done with anyone else. She felt closer to him than she felt to anyone, including herself. She knew that some deep and secret corner of Draco wanted her, no matter how far it was from the surface or how hard he tried to conceal it from himself; and that gaze had shown that he now acknowledged that part of him. Hermione knew that Draco knew how she was feeling and she could empathize with his emotions. No words were spoken, yet she understood that he and she were kindred spirits, and no House rivalry could separate them.

As Professor Vector announced dismissal and the commotion of students gathering their materials and leaving began, Draco turned to Hermione. He used no speech, yet his words were as clear as though he had whispered them to her. _Please_, he asked, _please don't share this with Potter or Weasley_. Hermione gave him a warm and reassuring look that replied _you have nothing to fear. This was too meaningful to share with anyone else, even if I wanted too_. Relief replaced the hidden anxiousness in Draco's eyes, followed with gratitude. Draco swept out of the room, managing an exit filled with all the elegance and grace he had left. Hermione stared after him, her soul brimming with a deep and quiet joy she had not experienced since she first received the letter that brought her to Hogwarts.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for their kind reviews. This is my first fan-fiction and I'm excitedby all the positive feedback. I just wanted to thank everyone for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter and the rest of the story!

Chapter VI

It wasn't until much later that night that Hermione had the chance to ponder what exactly had transpired between her and Malfoy in Arithmancy. She fell into a vast and velvety chair by the Common Room fire. Hermione was exhausted and she wished her soft bed upstairs and the promise of gentle dreams could swallow her whole instead of the chair she was stretched out in.

Comfortable and warm, but not to the point where thoughts melted and all senses seemed sluggish, Hermione tried to decide what was going to happen between her and Draco, but more importantly what she _wanted_ to happen between her and Draco.

When they had first met, her impression had been that Malfoy was a spoiled and coddled wizard who thought he knew everything. Of course, Malfoy probably thought she was a subhuman spawn of Muggle filth that somehow became sentient and thought it knew everything. And despite Harry's immediate and fervent hate for Malfoy, Hermione never saw what Draco had done to deserve such pointlessly passionate hate. Sure, initially he appeared nothing more than the wizarding equivalent of a redneck, complete with unreasonable prejudice and probable inbreeding somewhere in his family tree; but when Hermione walked into her first Arithmancy lesson in third year to find Malfoy sitting up front she had seen another side to him. Apparently Draco did well in his classes because he was smart, not just because the majority of the staff was petrified of incurring the wrath of Lucius Malfoy. Apparently Draco was serious when he said his brain made Potter look like a Hufflepuff, he wasn't just being mean. Apparently he was a Slytherin because he was cunning, not just because his father was a notorious Death Eater. After all, Arithmancy was a rigorously challenging course.

In retrospect, that had been when Hermione first recognized Malfoy as a human being. That was when he became a tangible person, not just am incorporeal concept of evil to be addressed as Malfoy. That was when he became beautifully cold to her instead of just cold. Naturally, it helped that third year was when they began to mature, both physically and emotionally. But even without his stunning body gracefully growing into an even more perfect incarnation, Draco became attractive to her because he took on a more elegant manner. His insults were no longer simple snide jabs at her heritage. They took on more depth and complexity; became _witty_ even. Malfoy's snobbery became Draco's mildly amused detachment. His previously exaggerated yawns of boredom developed into stifled signs of his disinterest in matters of which he remained aloof. In short, Malfoy grew up and became Draco, the modern and male manifestation of Helen of Troy. Even before the rest of Hogwarts became mesmerized by his swiftly obvious beauty, Hermione had unconsciously been intoxicating herself with it. It may have taken her until last year to admit "objectively" that Draco was superhumanly attractive, but it had taken her until now for her to admit that her observation hadn't been objective in the slightest.

And now for some concealed reason, Draco had found an interest in her. _Interest_ was barely describing it. If their shared look earlier today revealed anything of Draco's affection for her, it would be foolish to dismiss it as a mere _interest_.

Without thinking, Hermione began to trace the scabs formed on her left forearm. _Maybe Draco recognized in me a despair and isolation he is beginning to recognize in himself. Maybe Draco does need someone after all. Someone who is on an equal level with him, at least mentally; Crabbe and Goyle certainly don't meet that expectation._

Hermione sat staring into the fire a short while longer until Crookshanks leaped into her lap. As she began petting him, she heard a noise, like footsteps on the stair. Whipping around in her chair, she saw Harry halfway down the stairs into the Common Room.

"Hermione? What are you doing up still?"

"Nothing, I was just…just thinking."

Harry stepped fully into the room and in the light now, he thought he could see remains of gashes on Hermione's arm.

"Hermione, what are those?"

Hermione followed his inquisitive eyes and swiftly yanked her sleeve down over her arm.

"Nothing, Harry. Crookshanks just got a little cranky last night…"

"Crookshanks hasn't got claws sharp or wide enough for those marks, if they're half as bad as they looked."

"Why do you _care_, Harry? Why now?"

Harry mumbled something insubstantial and Hermione swept past him, up the stairs and to her dormitory to be alone and hopefully get some sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

Hermione hadn't slept well. She had kept waking up after only a few moments' slumber, hoping she would be greeted by a steadily brightening dormitory. She had been disappointed each time, until now.

The grey traces of dawn swam around her, the sun far off and still smothered by the swiftly retreating night. The stars grew dim as the sun's fingers stretched from beyond the horizon to snatch them from the sky and add their light to its own.

Hermione got into the shower early, and decided to slow down. As the heat of the water formed a fog in the bathroom, her own thoughts began to swirl around her. Trailing back to yesterday, Hermione was unsure of what to do. Draco appeared to care about her, but she wasn't certain she could trust him. These days he almost looked like a Muggle junkie: sickly, thin and inhumanly pale. In the Muggle world she grew up in, there was a saying. Never trust a junkie.

What could Draco possibly want with her? He couldn't be looking just for an indiscreet hook-up, he could have his pick of Hogwarts for that, and he could definitely do better than her. Besides, Draco's stare of the previous day conveyed that he was looking for something deeper. Hermione mulled over the possible implications of this new realization. _Perhaps Draco is looking for a real relationship_, she thought. _Perhaps Draco wants to be with someone that he cares about, not just that he finds beautiful at the moment; but why me?_ Hermione shut off the water and reached for her towel. _Maybe, just maybe, _she whispered to herself as she wrapped the towel around her, _Draco and I could become something long-lasting; something meaningful and good and beautiful for longer than a year and a day. The least I can do is to give him the opportunity to prove he's serious._ Hermione left the bathroom to get dressed. She wanted to be proud of her appearance. She was looking forward to Arithmancy. Not that this was unusual, Hermione loved the intricacy and difficulty of the course. Now she had another reason to enjoy the class, Draco would be there. Even though she was certain Draco couldn't be attracted to her for her exterior, she thought spending an extra ten minutes couldn't do any harm.

She opted to don a form-fitting black long-sleeve shirt beneath her Hogwarts robes. Even under her loose robes, this shirt helped to hint at her pleasant figure. The fibers in the shirt sleeve were tearing at the scabs on her left arm, but in all the concentration of "getting dolled up" Hermione failed to notice.

Finally realizing that she had done all there was to do and that Arithmancy began in fifteen minutes, Hermione grabbed her necessary materials and left Gryffindor Tower, thanking the Fat Lady for her kind comments on her appearance.

Hermione arrived in Professor Vector's classroom with ten minutes to spare. The rest of the class gradually trickled in and when Draco showed up five minutes prior to class commencing, she was unsure what to expect. Draco glided to her table and gracefully perched himself in the chair next to hers. Hermione tentatively turned to face him, and gave him a small questioning smile. Draco acknowledged it with a brief nod of his head. No other reaction. No words of salutation. No smile, no sign that perhaps Draco enjoyed her company anymore than he enjoyed another's.

The nod he had graced her with caused his hair to partially fall down over his face, an avalanche of blonde cascading down to hide the side of his pale face. Hermione moved to brush the hair away with her hand, but Draco beat her to it. When he saw her hand levitating so near his head, Draco almost involuntarily retreated away from her.

Instead, his cool grey eyes met hers and then returned to her outstretched hand, beginning to follow the path linking her hand to the rest of her body. Draco's eyes paused on the left forearm, noticing immediately the blood making Hermione's left sleeve damp and a darker shade than the rest of the shirt. His eyes lingered there too long and Hermione followed them. As Draco moved to touch her arm, she tucked it away within her copious robes. Draco's eyes flicked to her face and she was almost afraid to meet them. When she did, she saw in them something she hadn't expected. Not pity, or horror, or a questioning bewilderment, but empathy. More than empathy. She saw in Draco's eyes the same pain she had felt the night she had lacerated her arm. Hermione felt the blood flooding her face and she wanted desperately to turn away, to disappear, to not see the anguish in Draco's expression. As she started to turn away, she noticed the look in Draco's eyes drastically altered.

His lips curled and he whispered with all of his old venom, "What's the matter, Granger? Is the mud that desperate to get out?"

Draco leaned back in his chair, folded his hands together and stared icily at the table.

Hermione remained still, paralyzed with shock, the hurt of Draco's words stemmed from sinking in only by her unwillingness to acknowledge that they had been spoken. Her eyes were melting, and in her blurring vision so was the rest of the world. Tiny lights of candles shimmered like starts, blinding her, causing her eyes to shut. Class was beginning, and she knew she couldn't stay here, not next to the creature she thought she had rediscovered.

She had been wrong. Draco was just Malfoy. It was absurd to have entertained the idea he had any feelings for her. Shame and embarrassment and a hurt she had almost forgotten compelled Hermione to pounce on Malfoy and beat upon him until the breath never returned to his body; compelled her to cast the spell she used on her arm on his angelic face. Even with her heart about to explode and her brain about to give out, Hermione still thought Malfoy was beautiful, still a banished citizen of the skies. She longed to kiss this incubus carved of marble next to her.

Hermione did none of these things. She glanced at Malfoy; his stony exterior remained the same. She fled the room, tears brushed from her cheeks by her speed.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: My apologies for taking so long between updates. I wanted to get the final scene of this chapter perfect, and I'm finally pleased with what I have.

Thanks to all of my readers, I appreciate your kind reviews. Enjoy the latest chapter!

Chapter VIII

Her feet slowing down and her mind struggling to catch up, Hermione came to a stop. She had no idea where she had fled to, but as the steady flow of tears slowed to a trickle and the flood from her eyes cleared to a glistening on her flushed cheeks, Hermione began to recognize her surroundings. She had run to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. She stifled a bitter laugh; how fitting that in her distress and hurt she had unconsciously been drawn to the lair of the most miserable of all Hogwarts' inhabitants.

Hermione sat on the ground, her back to the door. Surprisingly, the floor was dry. For once Myrtle had taken pity on Filch and not flooded the bathroom, or she simply hadn't gotten around to throwing a fit today.

Hermione drew her knees up and buried her head in her arms. Her mind was still swimming, everything had gone by so fast today. Events had left her bewildered, dizzy, and hurt. Hermione went over the past hour in her mind, slowing down the pace to try and make sense of it all.

The constant waking, the fitful sleep. Finally getting out of bed and into the shower. Deciding to give Malfoy a chance. Drying off. Getting dressed. _Actually putting on makeup_ for Merlin's sake. _Behaving like a giddy Muggle teenage girl._ _I ought to have had more sense than that_, she thought. Leaving her dormitory. Getting to Arithmancy early. Draco appearing five minutes later. My smile, his nod. Trying to brush his hair back. His gaze, his realization. My retreat. His agony. His words, his scathing syllables…best not to think of those.

Hermione simply couldn't understand it.

_His gaze, his realization. His agony_.

It struck her. _His agony._ Malfoy did care about her. Draco realized what it must have meant when Hermione tried to hide her arm. He knew then that Hermione truly experienced pain and anguish and sorrow and all the unpleasantries that not all the spells in the world could cure. And when she had tried to pass it off as nothing, he had been hurt. She, that "Mudblood Gryffindor" had wounded Draco's heart. _Merlin's beard_, she thought,_ he really does care for me._

Footsteps. Hermione's head rose. Draco entered the bathroom, her bag in his arms. Moaning Myrtle must have become aware of his presence, as she shot out of a toilet and into his path.

"Hello, Malfoy. Are you feeling any better? I've got loads of time today if you'd like to talk. I've _missed_ talking to you. You hardly ever come 'round my stall these days."

"Excuse me, Myrtle, but I'm…" Draco gestured towards Hermione.

"Hmph. Sure, I see your aim." Myrtle stormed off and dove into the nearest toilet. "Live girls aren't all they're cracked up to be, you know."

Draco and Hermione could hear her moans in the pipes as she slunk off to another part of the castle, most likely to start a flood somewhere.

Draco turned to Hermione.

"I've brought your things. You, er, left them behind in Vector's."

He handed the bag to Hermione; she stood briskly and took it. Hermione looked down and noticed that the sleeve of her robe was damp with blood. Choosing to ignore Malfoy, she shrugged off her robe, leaving her in a tight black shirt and a grey knee-length skirt. She rolled up her sleeves as she strode to the sink, bringing the robes with her. She washed the blood from the robe's sleeve, and then washed off her arm the sleeve of the sleeve. Drying everything with paper towels, she glared at Malfoy, daring him to say something. Malfoy just stood there, trying not to stare at Hermione's arm, trying not to let the pain show in his eyes. He opted to gaze down at his feet as he traded the weight from one to the other. His pale hands were trembling, and when he realized Hermione was transfixed by their quaking he hurriedly jammed them in his pockets. Malfoy closed his eyes and tipped his head back as he slowly breathed out. He stood up straight, focusing his eyes on Hermione's.

"Hermione, about what I said earlier…I'm sorry."

Hermione gazed back at him and let her face relax a little.

"I just thought, after yesterday, maybe…I didn't expect you still not to trust me. I had supposed you would have been willing to let me in a little more. I'm sorry."

Malfoy bowed his head and turned to leave. Hermione walked towards him as she whispered his name.

"Draco…"

As he turned Hermione wrapped him in her arms. Draco embraced her, one hand caressing the back of her head, the other gentle against the small of her back. She could feel his muscles loosen, his body relax. She buried her face in the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent that she knew from her dreams. Hermione grasped him closer, aware of the supple warmth of Draco's body encasing her. She felt his lips soft against the tender skin of her neck and she looked up into his face.

Their eyes met before their lips. As lids closed over her soft browns and his somber greys, the candles of the bathroom seemed to brighten to a blinding strength. Hundreds of suns surrounded them as they shared a breath, unaware of anything beyond this. A moment later and their lips were pressed fast together. A moment later and their lips were parted, Hermione stroking the sensitive skin beneath Draco's earlobe before they moved closer. Lost in waves of emotion, tossed like a wrecked ship upon seas of seething intensity, something stirred in the back of Hermione's mind, suddenly forcing the memory of her dream into the front of her thoughts and Hermione tensed, preparing for the shock of Draco's imminent reptilian transformation.

It never came. She was met only by the soft press of Draco's lips, the gentle caress of his tongue, the warm reassurance of his smooth skin against hers.


End file.
